


Snap

by write_away



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire isn't sad or depressed or anything. He's just numb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snap

**Author's Note:**

> This was pseudo inspired by nothing-rhymes-with-ianto’s History of Melancholy series, which gave me the courage to come forth with a fic that sort of echoes my own past experiences. It was very therapeutic for me, so I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading!

_Snap._

            The pain barely pierces the blanket of numb, a subtle sting on the side of nothing. Grantaire pinches the rubber band again and pulls it back until it tugs at the hair on his arm, until it’s taut and tight, then lets go. The rubber slaps into his already reddened wrist.

_Snap._

He’s still numb.

            Courfeyrac’s apartment buzzes with warm energy, the taste of vitality bitter on Grantaire’s tongue –

            _(Or maybe that’s just the taste of beer, of wine, of vodka, he doesn’t even know what he’s drinking anymore, all he knows is that the burn in his throat spiders out until his entire body is over the flame and the numbness melts just a little)_

\- and the heat of company itching under his skin, scratching until the mask forms on its own and settles into a relaxed _(drunk)_ grins and he’s laughing _(emptily)_ with his friends.

            He feels Enjolras’s eyes on him and tries not to.

            They’re watching some movie – Grantaire doesn’t know which, doesn’t care which, he’s drunk, he’s numb, his mind is doused in cold water, paralyzed and slow, even as his body moves on its own accord – and everyone seems entertained, so he gazes at the screen _(his eyes feel glazed)_ and laughs at the right cues _(he thinks they’re right)._

            _(He doesn’t feel gone or mad or sad or anything – he doesn’t feel anything – he feels numb, floating, underwater, far away –_

_he’s a ghost in a human body and nobody knows, they just smile at his enthusiastic laugh that doesn’t feel like his and –_

_Snap._

_He breathes more deeply and his chest loosens._

_He hadn’t realized it hurt.)_

And then the credits roll and Grantaire doesn’t think he’d have noticed if he hadn’t looked up from his empty bottle in hopes that he could snatch a sip from one of his friends. None of them are drinking. He sighs and peers at the lip of the bottle for a moment, mindlessly tracing it with his pinky, until Joly shifts and an elbow stabs into his side and it’s like a wave of painful clarity that ebbs away to nothing by the time he’s on his feet.

            “I’m getting another beer,” he announces to the room at large, but nobody really notices in the chaos of claiming new seats. It’s a sharper sting than the rubber band could ever be. Feuilly and Bahorel are wrestling for the armchair while Joly and Bossuet shift to share a cushion. Enjolras is letting Jehan doze on his shoulder while he discusses the movie’s twist ending _(Grantaire isn’t even sure how the movie began)_ with Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

            Grantaire slips out of the room.

            The kitchen is empty _(snap),_ but Grantaire’s smile doesn’t fall ( _snap)_. He almost feels full _(snap)_ and happy ( ** _snap)_** and he really wishes that it wouldn’t feel like he’s lying to himself ( _snap)._

            He grabs a new bottle and just holds it, waiting for the stinging burn on his wrist to fade, waiting for the numbness to feel less crushing, but it doesn’t – it just feels like a boulder pressing down on him, cracking his bones with slow splinters.

            “R?” Bossuet’s standing at the door and Grantaire jumps, grip tightening on the bottle as he twists and reaches for the bottle opener on the table.

            “Hey,” he says cheerfully, except he’s not really sure how. He thinks his hands are trembling, but he also thinks it’s his imagination, because Bossuet doesn’t seem concerned. “Want one?” he asks, popping the cap off his beer and taking a long burning sip.

            Bossuet shakes his head and smiles softly. “No thanks. I just –“ He cuts himself off, gnawing on his bottom lip. “Can we talk?”

            And then Grantaire’s heart is pulsing, racing against his ribcage, and all he hears is the rushing wind of blood in his ears. He doesn’t think Bossuet notices; he frowns a bit and brings the bottle to his lips again. “All right, then,” he says with a laugh that comes out on its own. He thinks it sounds a bit hysterical. “Talk.”

            Bossuet blushes – clearly, he hadn’t been expecting Grantaire to be so open to the chat. Grantaire hadn’t expected it either, but since when has he been part of his own body?

_(Bossuet would see him snap the rubber band, so he refrains.)_

            “Are you okay?” Bossuet doesn’t come closer, just leans against the doorframe and watches him. “I mean. You’ve seemed off lately.”

            Grantaire’s hands feel clammy and he isn’t sure why he knows this, because he hasn’t felt this connected to his body in weeks. “Really?” he says, swaying on the spot, feigning dumb and drunk, because that’s what they expect. “Weird.” He drains half the bottle in a go, watches Bossuet wince. “I’m fine.”

            Bossuet’s frown is leaving trenches in the man’s face. “You’re going to kill your kidneys.”

            “You’re beginning to sound like Joly,” Grantaire teases, pushes back the erratic thump in his chest, tries to _breathe_. “I’m fine. Seriously. I don’t know where you get these ideas.”

            “Everyone’s noticed,” Bossuet starts to say, and Grantaire sucks in a breath and holds it, the air hovering painfully in his lungs. “I mean,” Bossuet continues. “The drinking. It’s been worse. We’re worried.”

            Grantaire rolls his eyes and snorts. “You always worry,” he says. “I always drink. Just the way it is.” But he sets down the bottle under Bossuet’s stare and smiles. “I’m fine,” he says again, forcing some honesty into his voice. It’s difficult when he doesn’t feel honest _(he doesn’t feel much at all)._

            “All right,” Bossuet concedes slowly, and Grantaire watches as he accepts the lie, as the tension leaks out of his body. “We’re watching _Star Wars_ next. You coming?”

             Grantaire nods and lifts the bottle again. “In a second.”

            Bossuet nods and steps back into the hall. Grantaire watches him until he turns the corner, back into the living room.

            _Snap._


End file.
